Grace
by Accelerated Albania
Summary: Looking at his Grandpa with cold, stern brown eyes, void of any light of hope, just anger, and sadness. Roma comforted his Grandson with open arms, Lovino just watched coldly. This was only the beginning of Feliciano's 'grace'. Soon to be HIGHLY Depressing, GerIta, Language, Sadness, Spamano, Soon-to-snap!N.Italy ect. If you know what I usually write.. This is no different.
1. Life Starts Now

_**Hey guys, **_

_**This is a Gerita story, just not started the romance yet. Giving some back story in this chapter. Sooo~ Yeah.. Suggestions, questions, or issues in the review pleaaasee. Thank you!**_

_**-Accelerated Albania**_

_Chapter 1: Life Starts Now_

Feliciano was the youngest of two almost opposite personality, identical brothers. In fact, his older brother: Lovino, was always cold to his younger, ditzy like brother. Feliciano was about 5'6 with his brother standing at the same height. Feliciano was the favorite of the two, always popular with people, men and women. Lovino was as well, but not as much.

When Lovino's mother told Lovino he had would have a little brother, Lovino was about 3 when he heard the news.

He was thrilled.

His brother was born on the same day as Lovino, March 17th.

But, about two weeks later after Feliciano's birth, he loathed his younger brother. His mother and father coddled the baby constantly, making Lovino feel unimportant. At night, Lovino would cry himself to sleep because his mother would be putting Feliciano to sleep, ignoring him it seemed.

Feliciano was so annoying, Lovino was enraged at his parents.

When Feliciano was 3 and Lovino was 6, their parents left them with their Grandpa Roma. Their parents had promised they'd be back in a couple hours. They gave the boys kisses then they left.

They didn't come back.

Roma got a phone call the next morning from the local police department. After, Roma was done with the call, he sat the boys down on the calm, dark green living room couch. Lovino knew something wasn't right. "What'a wrong, Roma?" Feliciano asked innocently, tilting his head a little. "You're mom and dad... They went to heaven last night..." Roma said, a sad, soothing tone embedded in his voice. Feliciano knew what that meant, he looked at his older brother. Lovino didn't make eye contact, he just stared at his at lap in sadness. "No," he whispered, tears stinging in the back of his eyes, slowly starting to soak his Italian flag pajama pants. Feliciano just stared at Lovino, his hand reaching for his brother's. Feliciano then clenched his brother's hand with his own. For once, Lovino didn't resist. "It's okay, Lovi." Feliciano said softly, _innocently_ as he started to cry. "I know," Lovino said as made a fist with his other hand.

Slowly, Lovino ceased his crying.

Feliciano had to look forward, he knew it.

When Feliciano was 6, his favorite smoky colored cat had passed away from old age on Feliciano's bed. Feliciano loved that cat more than life itself. He sat with the body on his lap, not knowing if Pooche had passed or not. Feliciano slowly stroked the cat's soft, cold fur, as he mumbled an Italian lullaby. Suddenly, feet running up the stairs was heard, then the bedroom door to the two brother's room. "Feli! It's dinn-" Lovino burst in and began to yell at the grieving Italian, then he saw the cat. "Feli…" Lovino started.

Feliciano looked up from his best friend, the one who laid in his lap, purring while Feliciano watched a movie every so often.

Lovino saw it, Feliciano showed it.

Feliciano didn't seem right, something was off.

"Feli…" Lovino repeated, a little harder tone, as to get his brother's attention. "Lovi, what is wrong with Pooche?" The smaller Italian spoke softly, a saddened tone in his accented voice. Lovino stepped toward his brother, and the cat, putting his arm out. Feliciano looked back down at Pooche, his eyes half lidded. It was very quiet, Lovino just stood in front of his brother, watching him begin to cry. Feliciano broke the silence first, "Remember when Pooche pooped on your bed?" Feliciano asked, a smile broke his lips. "Yeah," Lovino said, "I wanted to give that cat to that Spanish pedo-bastard down the road, y'know, Antonio," Lovino said, as he gave a slight blush at Antonio's name.

Lovino thought it was calm enough, he reached for the grey cat in Feli's lap. Then, Feliciano looked up at Lovino quietly, then let out a loud yell, "LOVINO, DO NOT TOUCH POOCHE!" Lovino jumped back at the scream, tripping over one of Feliciano's many Italian story-books about the Pasta Fairy, landing on his back. As he fell backward, Feliciano placed the limp cat's body beside him, then lunged forward at his brother, pinning him down on the oak floors. "HOW DARE YOU, LOVI? POOCHE WAS THERE FOR ME! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!" Feliciano screamed in his brother's horrified face, he had never seen Feli like this, so weak-minded. Suddenly, loud, fast footsteps were heard running up the stairs. Suddenly, the door exploded open to a confused 37-year old-looking-Italian grandpa. "What happened?!" Roma yelled, as he look upon the brothers' spat, and then to the dead cat on the bed. "Grandpa, get him off me!" Lovino pleaded, struggling to remove his insane-seeming brother. Roma slowly peeled Feliciano off of Lovino. "Feli, what happened?" Roma said consolingly, patting the youngest Italian on the back as he cried. "Pooche," he sobbed, snot leaking from his nose, sniffing in intervals. "Pooche's dead… and Lovi tried to take him…"

"It's ok-"

"No,"

"Feli-"

"He tried to take my best friend!" Feliciano said sternly, looking at his Grandpa with cold, stern brown eyes, void of any light of hope, just anger, and sadness. Roma comforted his Grandson with open arms, Lovino just watched coldly.

This was only the beginning of Feliciano's _'grace'_.

_To be continued… _

_Maybe…_


	2. Words and Their Organization

_**Chapter 2: Words**_

Ever since the accident with the cat; Feliciano was a little unstable with his emotions. Every time someone he didn't like was around he'd have the stability of a sociopath, always making deals, lying, all for the possible gain: a person he could manipulate, no weak attachments required. He craved that person, that masochist or sadist; with a desire for hurt, pain, love, or possible love.

Love.

Feliciano secretly despised that word, that damned four letter word! So many people concealed their mistakes with it, it was sickening, no, repulsing.

"They did it for love."

"They were not loved enough."

"It was love's fault, blindly leading me/them on."

_Love._

It struck him with an agony, the feeling of love. As I previously stated before, he was very popular with the ladies, and men. His previous lovers used to have such a zeal toward him; such a love. When he stomped on their hearts, shattering them to a quintillion of sharp, and cold shards, as he felt no guilt, no remorse. All he felt was... satisfaction, the kind that a stereotypical German gets from 3 cubic tons of beer on a brisk Berlin night. Feliciano was right to leave those... worthless, good for nothing, quantities of flesh. Those cold, lonely, and broken piles of flesh, blood, and bone! They had deserved everything Feliciano did to them.

There was a girl, worse than all the others though. Her name was Jocelyn Ann-Hope. She was a lying, arrogant, horse-faced, pale skin that looked like a ghost, the only style of clothes she seemed to wear was over-confident stripper from the future, and her makeup was like pounds of glitter upon glitter, the shades unlatching, like a 3 year-old's finger-paints.

One night, Jocelyn was found dead on the intersection of Felicity St. and Stitch Av. She had her own small intestine wrapped around her neck in a Gallows' fashion, dripping acids, both wrist were slashed open, as she hung from the tree behind the green street signs.

It was all over the news.

Still, Feliciano felt nothing.

No matter how many sympathies were given to him.

There was still absolutely nothing, besides happiness.

After all, That bitch was gone.

Feliciano seemed to love the feeling of ataraxia, no care in the world, no anxieties. Anxiety was something that held you back.

Anxiety was something that Feliciano had no tolerance for. It doesn't allow you to seize the day, it makes you a sheep. You are a slient, and weak. Maybe you are trying to seem a certain way; to impress everyone, slowly, you could very quite possibly falling into a catachresis.

I find it agitating.

Very Agitating.

Maybe, you need to change! For the better, or maybe for the worse. Maybe you must become iniquitous, imperfect, inadequate, or inferior. Then, you'll be alone, you'll have no one to impress.

You'll have no _**love**_.

M- I mean, Feliciano's first word was love. It's ironic, he hides his hatred toward love, but his first word was just that. _**Love. **_For an Italian, it just falls off your lips, accent rolling, voice unfaltering. I think he picked up the word from his Mom, not his Dad. His mom would constantly tell the boys she 'loved' them.

**THEN SHE DIED, SHE WENT AND FUCKING DIED, CRASHING IN TO A STOP SIGN, THEN ROLLING OFF A STEEP HILL, WITH YOU FATHER, IN HEAVEN THE MOCK US.**

It's a shame really.

It played very well on the news, reporter's fed the story to nicely, the work was organized in a fake, oversized fashion.

Why are reporters so organized?

Why can't I be?


End file.
